


poison balm for aching wounds

by showmethebeefy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst and Porn, Badly written porn, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Forgive Me, M/M, Manipulation, Not Beta Read, Pre-Movie(s), Stream of Consciousness, Unhealthy Relationships, but that's not what it's about, sex sometimes, some spoilers but not all of them, sorry but Credence has a sad life, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8630755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/showmethebeefy/pseuds/showmethebeefy
Summary: credence: belief in or acceptance of something as trueA truth: Credence hates himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> some exploration into Credence's mindset with added Gradence for flavor

There’s an itch deep under Credence’s skin. Well, not an itch, quite—it’s a small burning, really. Ever since he was a small child. Since he quashed down the rising feelings inside him, since he tamped down on some internal warmth, doused the flame of power with cold, stinking fear of a beating for accidentally moving objects without touching them, or setting small things ablaze, or cleaning without using tools. That was when the itch began, prickling under his skin, and it’s only grown and grown since then.

It isn’t that the suppression eliminates the beatings, though. It only lessens one possible external factor. Not that Ma needs a reason to beat Credence. He deserves it though, he tells himself. Nasty, dirty, wrong. Just like his family, from which he was liberated. He knows that’s what Ma thinks of him. His skin is lined with scars that prove it. She beats everyone, but she beats him the most.

He deserves it. He deserves it. He deserves it.

The itch scorches under his skin. When he gets angry, when he’s alone, he bursts. Bad things happen to people around him. They’re bad people, he tells himself, to quell the guilt and sickness roused by the blurry, red-tinged memories of what he’s done, who he’s harmed. There are scratches on his skin. Punishment for letting that choking heat inside him run wild. He deserves it, he tells himself, nails digging into his flesh, leaving weeping red lines behind. He deserves it.

He covers his scars as best he can with dark clothing. He can’t hide them all.

A truth: Credence hates himself. He can’t look people in the eyes, for fear they’ll see the ugliness inside of him, the broken bits, the undesirable qualities. The burning itch under his skin, the unpleasant and shameful desires he hides. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then Credence’s eyes are a yawning abyss, with ugly monsters swarming at the bottom.

Maybe all that is why when he meets Percival Graves, who looks at him with warm, dark eyes, he trusts him, instinctively. He’s afraid to touch, to give in to anyone, but Graves is kind to him. Even though he’s a _wizard_ (Credence whispers the word under his breath. It sounds dirty and wrong, but how could it be when Graves is so good?) he is only kind to Credence. He needs his help, he tells Credence, in a hushed whisper in a back alley. Ma tells him that only dirty, wrong things happen in back alleys. Credence, imagining the belt slicing lines across his body once more, shakes his head almost instinctively, squeezing his eyes shut. Graves cups the side of his face, and the rough warmth makes Credence’s eyes startle open, and Graves is so close to him that it sets his body alight. His eyes are imploring. It’s to help a little child, he says. He’s had visions, he says. They’re in danger, he says. I can help you join the wizarding world, he says. Promises, promises. They don’t mean a thing. Credence runs his tongue over dry, cracked lips and says yes anyway. God save him.

He does his best. Keeps his head low as always and his eyes as watchful as he can. He doesn’t tell Graves about the frightful itch that makes it feel as if his nails are going to come bursting off, about the blackouts he only remembers snippets of, about the feelings of exploding warmth. At one point, he asks how Graves came to know of him. Tina, Graves says. Credence doesn’t know a Tina. Then it comes to him. The witch woman…who saved him from a beating and held him sweetly. He only got beaten harder after that, but the memory still sustains him when he huddles alone at night in a bed he outgrew years ago. That memory. And now Graves, too, swirls in his mind, warm, piercing gazes and hot hands fresh on his thoughts’ surface. If Ma could read Credence’s thoughts, she would beat him for these discretions, and maybe she should. Just another sin on her tally of reasons to hate every fiber of Credence’s being. When he thinks of Graves he digs his nails into his palms and grits his teeth together but it doesn’t stop the warm, syrupy tide of Graves in his mind. It makes him warm all over. He hates himself even more for that.

Graves heals his wounds with a stroke of his hand, and there is a tingling under his skin long after Graves has let him go. Sometimes he holds him close, in dark alleyways where no one can see them, Graves’s hand on Credence’s neck, hot and heavy. When Graves pulls his hand away, dragging his hand along the side of Credence’s face, it overwhelms his senses and he can’t help but seek after the receding touch, the most intimate touch he’s ever known. When Graves touches him, he shudders all through his bones, but it’s not a bad shudder. It’s the best shudder he’s ever felt.

Graves is always wanting to meet Credence more and more regularly. They meet in alleys, mostly, but sometimes, Credence follows Graves to more intimate meeting spaces, in cheap hotels where no one gives them a second look. The first time they go to a hotel, Credence is bleeding from oozing sores, marks of his own belt which he then has to put back on and wear around, the weight of it heavy with ever-present memories of his own flashing pains. He makes Credence take his shirt off. The lash marks extend up his torso, and Graves lets out a small noise when he sees them. He runs his hand over them, and it hurts for a moment, but only that far, and then they seal up, blood running backwards into the wounds, and they’re closed. He lets out a long, shaky sigh. He can’t look away from Graves, whose hand rests on his bare shoulder. It’s too much, too…sizzling, and heat pools in his crotch, and he can’t, he can’t, he looks away, but he doesn’t make Graves move his hand. He doesn’t want to lose that intimate heat. It’s all he has to cling to, him and his bare bones. Graves is solid, Graves is alive, Graves is…kissing him.

It’s wrong, it’s bad, it’s immoral and filthy and dirty, but he doesn’t stop Graves, doesn’t protest. He feels more on fire than he ever has, but the fire doesn’t feel as bad as it usually does. Credence is an adult, but Graves…Graves is an Adult, and Credence has never felt more small, more fragile, than in his arms. Graves’s hands are huge; they dwarf Credence’s, and they cup his face with ease, enveloping him with suffocating warmth. It doesn’t take long. Waves of heat tear through him with every movement Graves makes, and suddenly he’s gasping and spasming under Graves’s body and he feels all wet and sticky in his pants, and that feeling of release sends him trembling with pleasure in every extremity. Graves holds him close, tells him he’s glad that Credence is helping him, glad they can spend time together. He tells Credence he’s a good boy, and Credence melts against his torso.

He arrives home late, having slept in Graves’s arms for far too long. Ma takes the excuse given freely to her and beats Credence like she won’t get a chance to beat him again. Credence doesn’t see Graves the next day, or the next, and his wounds harden into thin white lines.

So it continues like this. Some days they meet in alleyways and have hushed talks about The Mission To Find The Child. Some days they meet in alleyways and move to seedy hotel rooms and Graves holds Credence and sometimes they do things. Some days Credence doesn’t see Graves at all. And Credence knows it can’t last, that the mission will end and Graves will stop needing him and even though Credence will go on desperately wanting, _needing_ Graves, he’ll eventually leave, and Credence will be alone with Ma and the kids and the snap of the belt again. He knows he shouldn’t get attached. But every moment is precious to him, and he can’t not get attached, not when Graves is giving him everything he so desperately craves.

One shady afternoon Graves leads Credence to that seedy hotel room and holds him close, kissing him and roaming his body with his hands. Credence is lightheaded and it’s a blur of whispered commands and soft touches and awkwardly shed clothes and before he knows it he’s on his knees with his lips wrapped around Graves’s cock and Graves’s fingers knotted in his hair and it’s overwhelming. His head feels like it’s about to explode, and he’s not very good at any of this but Graves calls him _good boy_ and his stomach clenches and he takes what he can. And Graves tells him to get on his back and he does, and Graves whispers some words under his breath and his fingers are dripping, and Credence has never had anything inside him before now. When they go in, it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, and his insides pulsate and his body jerks and Graves presses his free hand on Credence’s stomach to hold him still.

He’s not quite ready when Graves takes him, and his cock is too much, it’s too much, _too much_. He presses himself back against the hotel bedsheets and lets out a strangled noise, his thin pale body prone, his legs spread wide and his eyes staring glassy at the ceiling. Graves’s hand on his stomach slides up, slowly, until it’s pressed at the base of his neck, and Credence can only just breathe. Graves is pounding and pounding and it hurts but it also feels so good, too good, and Credence is gasping for breath, making little noises, his hips convulsing underneath Graves. Good boy, says Graves, voice hoarse. He keeps repeating it. It’s so overwhelming, and suddenly he’s coming all over himself, but Graves is still pounding. Credence, panting and spent, risks a look at Graves, and a chill settles in his gut.

There’s nothing in his eyes. They’re cold and dark and empty.

Graves comes, inside of him, and collapses on top of him, still inside him. The touch is still warm and comforting, but Credence keeps thinking about those eyes. He’s quiet for a while, mind swirling, before asking, tentatively, what does this mean? Graves chuckles, a rumble deep down in his throat. He says, I need you Credence, you’re important to me. I’m glad you and I are working together, that we’ll get to stand side by side one day, he says. That leaves a warm feeling in Credence’s stomach. It’s good to feel needed.

He walks home funny, feeling sore and more empty than he’s used to. His clothes are as straight as he could make them, getting dressed quickly to make curfew, but they’re still a little askew, rumpled in odd places. He must look funny to the passerby, he thinks, with his odd limp and his ruffled clothes and hair sticking up in odd places. He makes it home before curfew. Ma takes a look at him and gets a hard look in her eyes, and beats him anyway. He doesn’t protest. He never protests. If he protests, she hits him harder, and he deserves it. He always deserves it.

Credence goes to bed, with thoughts of Graves and his mission in his head. He’s aching all over, and he only has his clothes to sleep in, and his belt is stained with flecks of blood, but he has a purpose. The itch burning under his skin hasn’t stopped, but he has someone in his life who takes his thoughts away from the blaze with a different, softer warmth. If one person can like him, maybe love him, or even just need him, everything feels a little more okay. As long as he has Graves, he thinks, he’ll be fine. Graves needs him. Graves cares for him. Graves isn’t using him.

But, as he drifts off to sleep, his thoughts return to those eyes. Those cold eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> please don't get angry at me about "supporting abusive relationships" because I'm not condoning this shit, it's unhealthy, doesn't mean I can't write it. also let me know what you think!! if you catch anyone on tumblr using this fic in a "callout post" for "abuse supporter" gradence shippers, let me know because I will fight them In Person


End file.
